


anything but cold

by rennish



Category: Farscape
Genre: BDSM, F/M, M/M, Multi, Stream of Consciousness, Threesome - F/M/M, Waxplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rennish/pseuds/rennish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sikozu contemplates temperature as metaphor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	anything but cold

It’s always strange when Sikozu overhears others (mainly friends of John Crichton) describe Scorpius as cold. She’s heard cold blooded, cold hearted, he’s a snake, a reptile, his eyes are icy, I shiver just looking at him—none of these accusations and comparisons ever made any sense to her, she muses one afternoon, skimming a text on Leviathan ancestry while Scorpius and Braca are enjoying themselves on the other side of their shared quarters.

Her thermal receptors, when she would run her palm lingeringly along the scant patches of bare skin revealed by the ever present, ever ingenious coolant suit (the suit, when she’d press the curves of her bare back into the ridges of his chestplate, would be by contrast pleasantly chilly) or more frequently, when he’d suck her fingers into the wet, searing heat of his mouth, registered a temperature of well over two hundred klances. Certainly when the cool press of his gloved fingers is replaced by a fever-hot tongue, well… the last word she’d choose to describe him is frigid. 

 _Emotionally perhaps_ , she thinks,  taking a moment to look up from the information screen she’s reading to watch as he takes Braca apart with well-aimed drops of candlewax and his open palm on already reddened skin. Yes, she could see why someone who hasn’t taken the time to understand would think of him as cold. The closest to intimate conversation she has observed between Scorpius and Braca included a casualty report and only the barest pause for a “Well done lieutenant,” and a “Thank you, sir.” But she’d seen their expressions and their eyes, and that relief and loyalty said far more than any of Crichton’s “I love you Aeryn”s ever could.  

And anyone hearing the lieutenant’s pained whimpers and seeing the red mark forming a brilliant contrast around the white of the  peeling wax would think him cruel, true. But Sikozu can see the question in his face as he makes brief eye contact with the man spread out below him, and the slight pause as he waits for Braca to nod— _yes, more, I’m all right_ —before the sound of another harsh slap and a barely muffled cry break the silence of the room.  

She also knows what will come after this strange fusion of pain and pleasure—she’s seen it before. He’ll gently clean the dried wax from Braca’s back and soothe the bruising skin with his tongue (they would both insist, if pressed, that it isn’t a kiss and that the time they spend afterwards discussing tactical maneuvers with Braca still naked, his arm casually draped across Scorpius’s thigh doesn’t mean anything, but Sikozu isn’t an idiot. She can see that they care.)  

Another loud crack and the hiss of an extinguishing candle interrupt that particular train of thought and she stands and stretches, giving up on the text and introspection. Far more interesting things are happening across the room. She saunters over and grabs herself a fistful of Braca’s hair, giving Scorpius a cheeky grin as Braca gasps audibly.  

“I was wondering when you’d join us,” Scorpius says as she leans in to kiss him, and it’s  _anything_  but cold. 


End file.
